Bonaparte made a sign to Lucien, who kept silence.
Then he looked at Piombo and said:—­

“Why did you kill the Portas?”

“We had made friends,” replied the man;
“the Barbantis reconciled us. The day after
we had drunk together to drown our quarrels, I left
home because I had business at Bastia. The Portas
remained in my house, and set fire to my vineyard
at Longone. They killed my son Gregorio.
My daughter Ginevra and my wife, having taken the
sacrament that morning, escaped; the Virgin protected
them. When I returned I found no house; my feet
were in its ashes as I searched for it. Suddenly
they struck against the body of Gregorio; I recognized
him in the moonlight. ’The Portas have
dealt me this blow,’ I said; and, forthwith,
I went to the woods, and there I called together all
the men whom I had ever served, —­do you
hear me, Bonaparte?—­and we marched to the
vineyard of the Portas. We got there at five
in the morning; at seven they were all before God.
Giacomo declares that Eliza Vanni saved a child, Luigi.
But I myself bound him to his bed before setting fire
to the house. I have left the island with my
wife and child without being able to discover whether,
indeed, Luigi Porta is alive.”

Bonaparte looked with curiosity at Bartolomeo, but
without surprise.

“How many were there?” asked Lucien.

“Seven,” replied Piombo. “All
of them were your persecutors in the olden times.”

These words roused no expression of hatred on the
part of the two brothers.

“Ha! you are no longer Corsicans!” cried
Piombo, with a sort of despair. “Farewell.
In other days I protected you,” he added, in
a reproachful tone. “Without me, your mother
would never have reached Marseille,” he said,
addressing himself to Bonaparte, who was silent and
thoughtful, his elbow resting on a mantel-shelf.

“As a matter of duty, Piombo,” said Napoleon
at last, “I cannot take you under my wing.
I have become the leader of a great nation; I command
the Republic; I am bound to execute the laws.”

“Ha! ha!” said Bartolomeo, scornfully.

“But I can shut my eyes,” continued Bonaparte.
“The tradition of the Vendetta will long prevent
the reign of law in Corsica,” he added, as if
speaking to himself. “But it must
be destroyed, at any cost.”

Bonaparte was silent for a few moments, and Lucien
made a sign to Piombo not to speak. The Corsican
was swaying his head from right to left in deep disapproval.

“Live here, in Paris,” resumed the First
Consul, addressing Bartolomeo; “we will know
nothing of this affair. I will cause your property
in Corsica to be bought, to give you enough to live
on for the present. Later, before long, we will
think of you. But, remember, no more vendetta!
There are no woods here to fly to. If you play
with daggers, you must expect no mercy. Here,
the law protects all citizens; and no one is allowed
to do justice for himself.”